


i touch you (but it starts to hurt)

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Insomnia, M/M, Not Happy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: tell me what I've been doing wrongOr:Steve wants to fall to his knees.  Wants to crawl, to beg, to anyone who might listen.  Wants something to remind him that he’s not decaying inside.When Billy’s fingers press just right, his entire face throbs, and it’s enough.It’s enough.





	i touch you (but it starts to hurt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts), [lipsgallagher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsgallagher/gifts).



> A reply to brawlite’s (i broke my bones) playing games with you. Titled from the same song (thanks, lipsgallagher).
> 
> Not quite in complete accordance with brawl's fic, but yeah.

**After**

Steve’s laughing. It’s an unhinged, unbalanced sound, echoing around in his head. He’s laughing and there are tears on his face and blood on his teeth and he stares at Billy from the ground, limbs everywhere, and Billy’s fist is still clenched tight. 

Steve can’t stop laughing. 

Not when Billy nudges at him with a boot. Not when Billy crouches down and takes Steve by his shirt front and  _ yanks _ . Not when Billy spits in his face to  _ stop, Harrington, fucking stop it _ . 

“Do it,” Steve says, cackling, and he can’t stop crying either as he draws the words out in a slur. “ _ Do _ it.” 

He doesn’t remember how he got here. 

***

That’s a lie. He remembers. 

***

**Before**

He remembers his face between Kristen or Kathryn or Kristy’s thighs. He remembers the stuffy suit his dad made him wear to this stupid spring event at the Country Club. He remembers the scent of her, the taste of her on his tongue, as she tossed her head back and rocked against his lips. He remembers the locked bathroom door and the way her skirt bunched up around her hips. 

He remembers pulling back when she was done. Remembers not being hard at all-- fucked up, drunk on too many mimosas and glasses of scotch between niceties-- but getting hard has kind of been a problem for a while now. 

Too fucking tired. Too fucking  _ scared _ to even get it up. 

“Aw, baby,” she’d cooed, big eyes and red lips, tugging him between her legs and pulling a cross from her blouse. “Want a little help with that?” 

He’d taken whatever she’d offered after untwisting the hidden capsule in that shiny, silver cross. Didn’t even ask. 

Let her place it on his tongue. Let her smear lipstick along his jaw. Let her ride his fingers until he was up to play. 

***

He’d started sneaking booze into class. Not enough to get noticed. Not enough to do more than give him a pleasant little buzz. To take the edge off. 

On weekends, alone in his big fucking house, he’d drink. He’d pop pills. He’d pace the halls, the walls, hand out-- feeling for any hint of give. Any hint of another world trying to break into his. 

Sometimes, on the nights where he kept all the lights on, he’d stare into the empty depths of his closet. Sit there, bat by his hip, cross legged and barely awake, staring into the only dark the house had to offer. Staring until he was sure that the endlessness, the abyss, was just something in his chest-- not in his house. 

***

His dad gave up on trying to get him to take up the family business halfway through the fall. Steve was too drunk-- or too  _ high _ \-- to pay much attention to whatever he was trying to teach him. 

He was the disappointment. The blemish on his father’s otherwise impeccable resume-- if you didn’t count the affair with his secretary-- or the secretary before that-- or the secretary before that-- but the difference is--

The difference is, Steve doesn’t know how to hide that he’s a fuck up. He doesn’t know how to  _ hide _ .

***

The coke starts when he starts falling asleep standing. When he nearly falls asleep at the wheel, one day, carting the kids around during Christmas break. 

He stops driving them, not long after that. 

He buys it from some kid from the Country Club. Some kid that said he could get his hands on  _ anything _ Steve wanted--  _ Coke? Heroine? Quaaludes? What’s your poison, big guy? _ \-- and snorting  _ that shit _ \-- that’s the first time Steve feels strong again. Powerful. Like he could do anything. 

Like he could face a demogorgon head on, with nothing but his bat and the fire in his belly and the lightning in his veins. 

He starts spending his nights like that. Snorts a line, maybe two, and heads out. Walks between the trees and the roots and the shadows-- hunting. Preying.  _ Praying _ . 

_ Come get me. Come get me, I dare you. _

***

Nancy corners him at the grocery store the day after he sucks dick for the first time. He thinks she can smell it on his breath because her nose is wrinkled up in a way he thought was adorable once. 

“You can  _ talk  _ to me,” she keeps saying. 

He looks at her, grins, and says: “Bullshit.” 

***

Time bleeds together like this. Between fighting and fucking and hunting. 

He thinks it's still winter, but there's no snow outside anymore. His dad called him and told him to get the pool cleaned for the new season. He usually only does that when summer is around the corner. 

Steve doesn't remember the last time he saw both of his parents in the same place. He thinks maybe it was New Year's, but thinks it might've been the New Year before that. 

Dustin told him once that time was a construct. 

High and swaying in his kitchen, Stevie Nicks crooning over the record player, Steve  _ gets _ that. He knows, conceptually, that there was a time before this when he was  _ fine _ , that everything was  _ fine _ , but it also wasn't and he just didn't _ know it _ \-- so it makes the  _ before _ a little redundant. 

Useless. 

Steve gets that, too.

***

He’s listening to the wail of a guitar when Billy Hargrove rolls back into town like an omen. It’s summer again, already, and Steve’s sweating in his car even though the AC is blasting in his fucking face. He’s got the shakes, pretty bad, and knows it’s a long time until nightfall. 

He’s got a gram in his back pocket and a bar with his name on it-- but it’s not dark enough, yet. The shadows aren't long enough, haven’t stretched and yawned far enough, and Steve’s got the taste of weed on his tongue and Billy Hargrove walking past his car toward the general store looking like he’d like to be anywhere but Hawkins- _ fucking- _ Indiana-- and Steve can appreciate the sentiment. 

His head lulls as Billy goes by. Steve wonders, briefly, what he’s doing back in town. 

To the empty car, to the empty lot, Steve closes his eyes and remembers what it’s like to have nightmares. 

“ _ I want my, I want my, I want my MTV, _ ” he mutters, the riff of guitar almost deafening. 

***

Dustin has been riding his ass since Spring Break. 

All the kids have-- Nancy and Jonathan, too-- but Dustin is always the most bullheaded. Steve tries not to get too angry at him, worries too much he'll scare them all off, and then he'll be--

Well. 

But finding Dustin poking around in his bathroom is enough to get him yelling. It's enough to get loud enough that Dustin goes running. 

Steve's still nursing a shiner from the day before and a hangover that just won't quit and he's  _ too tired _ to go after him. But Dustin is a stubborn kid. Steve knows-- or  _ thinks _ he knows-- that he'll be back. 

He ends up running out to the general store. He's running low on blow and he's hungry but he won't eat and his hands have started shaking. 

Running into Billy Hargrove isn't what he plans. But it's what happens. 

He's not surprised,  _ exactly _ , when Billy reaches for him. He's always been kind of a dick. But he's still not expecting it. 

Not quite in the right headspace for it. Too shaky, too blurred at the edges. Doesn't think anyone could grab him if they tried; he's too translucent. Too thin. Too dead on his feet. 

But Billy does. Billy  _ can _ . Without even trying. 

Steve wants to fall to his knees. Wants to crawl, to beg, to anyone who might listen. Wants something to remind him that he's not decaying inside. 

When Billy's fingers press just right, his entire face throbs, and it's enough. 

It's enough.

“Where'd you get this beauty?” Billy asks, eyes narrow on his face like he's curious. Like he's  _ mad. _

Steve grins, wide and relieved. “Oh, this? Hit on someone I shouldn't have.”

And Billy's touch  _ stings _ . And Billy's touch feels like  _ relief _ . 

“Why?” Steve asks, skin singing, and he can't stop  _ smiling _ . “You think it's a good look on me?”

And Billy-- Billy looks at him. Really looks at him. The bruises, the smile,  _ everything.  _

Steve thinks he sees it. Thinks Billy looks at him and sees exactly what Steve sees-- nothing. 

“I  _ think _ ,” Billy says, tender and disgusted. “That you should really be more careful. After all, you wouldn't want anyone to fuck up this pretty face for good, now would you?”

His fingers dig in and Steve shudders. 

Then, Billy pushes his face away. Walks by him. Walks away. 

Steve watches him go. His heart is pounding in his ears. 

He wants  _ more.  _

***

The thing about addiction is you always want more. 

***

Steve’s fucked up. 

In every sense of the word. Steve  _ is _ fucked up. Steve  _ has _ fucked up. So. 

Dustin finds him, halfway through a joint, sitting with his feet in the pool because Steve is  _ stupid _ and doesn’t fucking  _ lock his doors _ because he  _ wants danger _ \-- but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want  _ this _ . 

Dustin, standing there with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face, and Steve feels  _ guilty.  _ Even flicks his joint into the pool and dusts his hands off, like he’s trying to say:  _ look, see, it’s nothing _ . 

“Are you sober enough to drive?” Dustin asks. 

Steve bobs his head. He thinks he’s nodding. 

“Good. You’re fucking driving me to the arcade, asshole.” 

And that’s how Steve finds Billy. He hasn’t slept and he didn’t get to finish his joint and Billy’s there.

He looks at Billy and thinks:  _ ruin me _ . 

***

Billy doesn't disappoint. 

But when Steve's done choking. When he's laughing on the ground,  _ blood _ and _ Billy _ in his mouth, Billy walks away like Steve is nothing. 

And Steve wanted that. He  _ wanted it _ . 

He laughs until his eyes burn. Long after Billy has left. He tries not to feel used. 

_ He wanted it _ . 

***

He doesn't know if it's a dream or not.

He hasn't been outside in days. Hasn't left the safety of unmoving walls, of known darkness, of shadows that refuse to move no matter how much he begs, for days. 

He doesn't know when Billy came in. Opened the door Steve leaves open like an invitation for some monster to take. He doesn't know if Billy  _ actually _ came in. 

But the weight of him feels real. The heat of him over Steve, pressing him into the floor of his living room, breath hot like whiskey on his face-- it all feels  _ real _ . 

The thigh pressing between his legs. The fingers on his mouth. The blue of Billy's eyes. 

Steve thinks this is a nightmare. He thinks he remembers a time when he dreamt of worse monsters than Billy. 

But then there are fingers in his mouth. Salty, sticky, pressing and petting and pushing. Steve's jaw aches and he bucks. He can't see the ceiling of his own house. His vision tunnels. 

He can't breathe. 

Billy presses deeper. Spit wells at the corners of his mouth. Slides down the side of his face. Steve arches, strains,  _ whines _ . Tears burn and fall free. He squirms. 

Billy presses harder. 

Strokes his tongue. Scrapes blunt nails over his tastebuds. Makes Steve gag and choke and sob and  _ come _ . 

His eyes roll back. He can't see anything but shadows. He thinks he might throw up. 

Billy pulls back.

“You're  _ disgusting _ , baby.” Billy whispers, a half slur against Steve's cheek. 

Steve doesn't know if it's real. 

***

When he comes back to himself, it's curled up on the couch with Billy Hargrove sitting on his floor, smoking and watching him. He hasn't slept in so long, not really, and it brings a certain clarity when he wakes to those blue eyes burning everywhere they look. 

"You're fucked up, Harrington." Billy says. 

He looks hungover. Maybe he is. 

Steve pushes up, rubs a tired hand over his face, and nods. "Takes one to know one."

"You don't fucking know me."

Steve looks at him. Watches him stamp out the cigarette on his mom's thousand dollar Persian carpet. 

He lunges before he can stop himself. 

Gets one good right hook in. But he knows it's not enough, not with Billy, and Billy lays him out flat. Gets to his feet, hauling Steve with him. Breaks his nose and leaves him on his back on the carpet. 

Steve’s laughing. It’s an unhinged, unbalanced sound, echoing around in his head. He’s laughing and there are tears on his face and blood on his teeth and he stares at Billy from the floor, limbs everywhere, and Billy’s fist is still clenched tight. 

Steve can’t stop laughing. 

Not when Billy nudges at him with a boot. Not when Billy crouches down and takes Steve by his shirt front and  _ yanks _ . Not when Billy spits in his face to  _ stop, Harrington, fucking stop it _ . 

“Do it,” Steve says, cackling, and he can’t stop crying either as he draws the words out in a slur. “ _ Do _ it.” 

Billy sneers, leans in, and kisses him hard. 

"You need help, Harrington," he rasps, but Steve's fingers are in his hair, keeping him close, kissing him harder. 

"You offering?"

Billy huffs. "Fuck no."

Steve hums. "That's what I thought."

***

_It's enough_ , Steve thinks. _It's enough._


End file.
